One Hundred One-Shot Challenge
by Swyfte
Summary: She's injured. He's dying. He's withering up inside, rotten to the core with no one left to help him. Yet it all ends with a blue sky in the distance.
1. Injured

The mocking voice issued from the dark-pelted tom, as he threw a cocky glance over his shoulder at the pale mottled she-cat that clearly straggled behind him. Her dark grey paws were covered with mud and damp blades of grass, but it wasn't the superficial marks that slowed her down.

"Sure you can keep up?"

Ripplesong ground her teeth in frustration. Creekfoot was always teasing, taunting, jeering.

"You could probably stay at camp if you wanted. You know, like you should've done fourteen moons ago."

The white-and-silver she-cat limped faster, hurrying to catch up to the black tom.

"It's sweet of you, to keep count. Suggests you actually care," Ripplesong meowed lightly. She hated how he always brought up that day, the stupid idea that had nearly crippled her. She hated how he always evaded the fact that he was the one who had lead her out of the nursery and onto the moors in the first place.

Creekfoot snorted and skipped a few steps ahead. "Hurry up!" he called, swishing his long white-tipped tail. "At this rate we'll be the sun-high patrol."

"I am hurrying," the small she-cat hissed between breaths.

He didn't seem to see how much effort she was making, how much she tried to be a good little warrior. All he did was remind her of her mistake.

"I don't even see why Redstar made you a warrior anyway!" Creekfoot said. "You can barely do a border patrol."

"It's not my fault," Ripplesong replied, her soft voice stiff with reproach. Her remark silenced the other warrior for a while, and they skirted the perimeter of WindClan territory without talking. It was as they turned to head back that Creekfoot opened his dreaded mouth again.

"Okay, sure. It wasn't your fault, it was the stupid eagle. Are you happy now?"

Ripplesong twisted her mouth into a thin grimace, mouth puckered as if impersonating the scar that ran from her shoulder to her hind-leg.

"Why can't you admit it?" she snarled, dragging her stiff paw another step further.

He didn't answer; sly, vague and elusive as ever. For a moment he was lost from Ripplesong's sight as he disappeared over the top of a ridge. Huffing, she laboriously pulled herself up the slope, cursing her dead leg, cursing the fact that Creekfoot always had to be right. Reaching the top, Ripplesong saw he was walking resolutely on, without a glance back at his lagging companion.

"It's not my fault," she muttered, scrambling down the hill. "_It's yours_."

_It was a funny thing; they'd been friends once. The best of friends, thicker than thieves. Yet all it had taken was a horrific mauling to send Creekkit away._

_It was an ordinary Greenleaf day, quite like any other; warm, bright and sunny. It marked the day that Creekkit turned five moons old and just a nudge more rebellious. Ripplekit, small and dainty for her age, was a half a moon younger, but she'd follow the black tom-kit anywhere, support his each and every idea._

_That day, it was her biggest mistake; her misguided trust in the tom that would coerce her into a new world of pain she had never known before._

Ripplesong shook her head, blinking blearily, forcing herself into an awkward lopsided trot. Creekfoot had a point- exactly why had Redstar made her a warrior?- but she didn't want to dwell on that or her memories. It'd only dredge up the old pain she'd buried in the darker depths of her mind.

_She didn't wake up thinking, today I'll be stalked and chased through the moor because I was stupid enough to follow my idiotic friend out of the camp. It simply never occurred to her- she was a kit and she was invincible._

_She woke up with a spark in her eyes, a purr in her throat, the spiky-furred form of her best friend swimming in her blurred vision._

_He bounced on his paws, purring too. There was no time for greetings; the young tom plowed straight into telling her about his latest and grandest scheme._

_They'd pulled off immature stunts before, sure; nicking herbs out of the medicine cat's den; stealing moss from Redstar's nest; stolen mouse bile and encouraged the younger kits to play moss-ball with it. They'd even planned to sneak off to a Gathering once, but both had fallen asleep before they could accomplish their ambitious goal._

_"Today," Creekkit whispered, "we're going hunting!"_

_Ripplekit felt her mouth drop open in shock. "That's so cool! We can show Redstar that we're so ready to be apprentices now! We'll really impress him!_

_Creekkit sat on his haunches with a thump, holding his head regally. "I know, I know," he said gloatingly, nodding and blinking owlishly- Ripplekit thought it was was meant to be a wink._

_"When are we going? Are we going now?" she demanded, her silver-and-white fur bristling, her green gaze wide and imploring. She had a soft, charming voice, but that disappeared in the face of her excitement. Both kits had been out of the camp before, but they had only been hopping in and out of the edge of camp chanting, "In the moor, out the moor," while giggling madly._

_"Whadda ya think?" Creekkit asked, rolling his eyes to say the answer couldn't've been more obvious._

_"Yes, yes, yes!" Ripplekit cried, springing to her paws and flinging scraps of moss everywhere._

_With a youthful sort of swagger the tom-kit led the way out of the nursery. He paused at the entrance, snuck a furtive glance around the deserted clearing- it was sunhigh and everyone was either patrolling, hunting or sleeping- and then darted towards the Dirt-place tunnel. Wrinkling her nose in mild distaste, the slender she-kit pelted after him. The pair wriggled through the thorny tunnel, carefully skirted the edges of the Dirt-place and then turned to trot out into the wide plains._

_"The stink will mask out scent," Creekkit explained smugly, puffing up his small chest with self-importance. Ripplekit nodded sagely in agreement, but the pungent odour that followed them only made them more conspicuous. They were kits; as the elder Thistleblaze liked to say, they were young and they were dumb. No one had taught them anything about survival in the 'outside world' because no one thought they needed to know. They were supposed to be compliant, self-preserving things. Rules were made to be followed, and the least kits could do to appreciate them was follow them._

_But these kits had other intentions._

_"What are we going to hunt?" Ripplekit asked, blinking adoringly up at her male friend._

_"Well, rabbits I guess. We're small enough to crawl into their warrens so maybe we can kill a bunch of their babies!"_

_Ripplekit, thinking nothing of such a callous waste of young life, nodded in assent. She followed Creekkit- unaware that the dark tom had no idea where they were going- as he began to pick his way across the grass. He began to talk confidently, allowing her here and there a small word or agreement every so often. It was only to cover his nervousness, and the fact that he was way out of his depth, but the mottled she-kit hung on his every word with a violent volley of nods and purrs._

_Each sound they made drew them into more and more danger. Each movement drew attention from the eyes of predators all around, but none more so the the great golden speck in the sky. From the mountains it had flown, starved and desperately hungry. It was a juvenile, with a soft mane of downy feathers that hadn't managed to quite fall off encircling its neck. Prey, despite the Greenleaf warmth, was wary this season and being so young the eagle was practically clueless when it came to the heavily perfected art of catching prey._

_Yet here, wandering aimless on the hilly green plains, were two tiny dots of unsuspecting food. With a tilt of its ragged wings it swooped closer, letting out a raucous cry of triumph._

_The kits shivered as its shadow brushed over them, its scream ringing in their ears._

_"What's that, Creekkit?" Ripplekit croaked, raising her head to stare at the feathered shape._

_Creekkit didn't answer; his bravado disappeared in the face of this new, unforeseen threat. Instead he started to run, his long legs carrying him in an gangly gallop towards a clump of sun-bleached heather. Ripplekit tried to run too, but her legs were too short and the grass was too long- she was barely a head taller than the shortest stems were. But to the circling eagle above, her pale pelt was vividly visible among the dull stalks of faded golden and green._

_The young predator had never seen cats before, but instincts- feral and hungry- told it that they could be caught, crunched and consumed. So it dived, hooked talons splayed before it, its ruff of baby-bird feathers waving wildly in the wind._

_Ripplekit tripped over her own small paws as the eagle plummeted closer. There wasn't enough time to stumble to her paws before she felt those cruelly cold claws close around her shoulders. They sank into her skin, freeing tiny drops of red that fell away and disappeared into the the grass and the dirt-small and meaningless now- and Ripplekit let out a whimper of mingled pain and terror. The sound was cut off as the eagle's wings thrashed the air. It rose above the ground in a swift movement, jerking Ripplekit into weightless limbo where her breath exploded from her chest in a harsh gasp._

_The bird cried again in victory, yet there was a danger it had never anticipated streaking towards it across the moors. A blurred tan-and-black shape, yowling, hurtled towards it. This confused the feathered predator. Small feline things were good to eat, but they did not run towards you, screeching in unearthly voices, nor did they leap through the air and sink their cursed into one's wing._

_The eagle tilted as the cat hanging from its body clawed out a lump of feathers and skin. Its cry changing to one of pain, it stopped the previously incessant beating of its wings and fell like a stone to the ground. Ripplekit was nearly shaken from its grip, but it sank in its talons even further._

_More feline shapes charged towards the falling bird, grey and ginger and black, moving so fast their pelts blur into a mottled streak. As the eagle plunged into the earth with a thud, the patrol leapt on it, their claws seeking the vulnerable spots- throat, chest, stomach- that would ensure its swift death. It cried out again, in a feeble voice. It cut off in a guttural gurgle; blood sprayed Ripplekit's pelt, who lay a small distance away, a long gash stretching from her left shoulder to her hind leg. It was an injury, as the elderly medicine cat would come to realize later, that would never be fully healed. The wound would scab and scar, yes, but beneath the shiny exterior of the new skin would be irreparable damage to her young muscles. She'd always walk with a hobble, cursed to live with a perpetual limp._

Ripplesong shook her head and swiped her tongue over her jaws. Despite the ever-present tingle of pain and her constant hobble, she'd managed to defy the odds and be made a warrior. Her mentor, Ravenclaw, had helped her devise special moves for battle training.

She'd never have an apprentice, she never went to Gatherings and she had barely scraped through her assessments, but she'd earned her name.

It didn't matter what Creekfoot thought, because deep down he knew that it was his idea that nearly killed his best friend.

* * *

**Hello everyone/people that are reading this! At long last I decided I wanted to do Prin Pardus' 100-Oneshot-Challenge. And thus, I have started. Sorry that most of it turned into a flash-back, but hey, it adds some flesh to her backstory, I guess. I'm also sorry that it didn't turn into some fluff between Ripplesong and Creekfoot. Most of my one-shots tend to do that, but not this one.**

**Also, special thanks to Spire for giving me a cat and an injury to use :3**

**-Swyfte**


	2. Sinking

A small number of words could describe Oakstar's current state; senile; paranoid; sinking.

Not sinking as in the literal sense, of course. There was very little of the way of swamps in PureClan's territory. It was Greenleaf, and each day dawned with a stale, arid air. There was hardly a puddle to splash in, let alone a bog.

He was slowly sinking through his Clan's hierarchy, as subtly as he'd once risen through them. He was-

"Feeling tired, you old foxface?" Morningsong asked, laughing as she darted past. She moved with an energetic speed that clearly stated she, the youthful beauty that she was, was not lethargic in the slightest.

"No," Oakstar grunted, but this was not the truth. He was exhausted, and this was why he no longer had the strength to keep himself afloat.

"C'mon then, foxface, chase me! Have some fun! Be a real cat!"

The shambling tabby glared at her tail-tip as it disappeared into the trees ahead. 'Foxface' was her not-so-affectionate nickname for him and it was less than accurate; his muzzle was not nearly as long or as tapered as a fox's.

He ignored her and continued on the the fresh-kill pile. Let the psychotic deputy play by herself in the woods. He was hungry. Swimming, literal or no, took energy.

"Here, daddy, take this," Meadowmist mewed, appearing suddenly in front of him, a starling at her paws. Her white fur shone brilliantly in the scorching sunlight. She'd surely picked up the colour from his pair Palefur- he hadn't a single snowy speck on his body. The invading streaks of gray, however, were another matter. With a gratified grunt, Oakstar took the bird and retreated to the shade cast by the Speaking Hill.

No cat bothered to spare him a glance as he shambled across the clearing.

Sinking.

Morningsong sauntered out of the forest, a smug look on her muzzle.

"I guess I'll organise some patrols then. Not all of us can sit around stuffing our faces, you know. Some poor cats have to actually catch the prey you cram your fat belly with." She was smirking, but there was an edge beneath her teasing words. A glint in her eyes that suggested, just suggested, that things would soon change.

Oakstar ignored her. She was always threatening- bluffing, really. Teasing. She did not have the power or means to carry anything through. It didn't matter that day by day, his rank meant a little less; he was still important, still vital. The Clan needed him and his leadership skills Morningsong had yet to acquire.

So he let her bluff, because hers were sentences of meaningless words, as illogical as the mutterings of a cat ensnared in a fever.

With a grunt and the protesting pops of old joints, he lowered himself onto the soft grass, dropping the bird at his paws. He would not eat yet; for a few peaceful moments he would simply sit and survey the bustling cats of PureClan.

There Reedfoot sat with his pair- arguing again, by the looks of it. Thornpaw seemed to have taken his father's lead and was doing the same to a disgruntled Emberpaw. Snowdapple ambled into camp with a squirrel in her jaws.

Finally satisfied that his Clan was not tumbling into disarray-his paranoia, he'd learned, could not be controlled- he bit into the bird. Its meat was tough and stringy, and he wondered exactly why Meadowmist had given him such poor prey anyway.

Probably hopes it'll give me a bad bellyache. Maybe she even think a dry old bird will kill me so Morningsong can take power. They're always conniving, those she-cats, I swear. But it'll take more than an awry piece of freshkill- okay, crowfood, to knock Oakstar off his perch.

His thoughts were interrupted as Palefur took a seat beside him.

"What?" he asked grumpily.

She-cats always had an agenda, will hidden or not. His pair was no different; she could wheedle anything out of him if she so desired.

"Nothing, nothing," she mumbled, wrapping her white tail around her petite paws. "I'm not allowed to sit beside you now?"

"It's not that," Oakstar muttered, pushing away the half-eaten remains of the starling away. Some apprentice would clean it up. He didn't care which.

"Not hungry?" Palefur asked, eyeing the bird. "Might want to check in with Twigclaw, maybe?"

"I'm not sick," Oakstar growled; at every chance she got, the white warrior offered to escort him to the medicine den.

"He won't feed you deathberries or anything! It'd just be a little check-up. To keep you healthy," she chirped. Sometimes, he thought she felt a little more than a she-cat should feel for her pair. Sometimes he thought it was overbearing; mostly he just ignored it.

""I'm fine," he snapped, and heaved himself to his paws.

"Oh no, Oakstar, don't move too fast or you'll injure yourself!" she cried desperately. "Be careful!"

"I. Got. Up," the tabby leader said heavily, giving his pair a frozen glare that seemed to shut her up.

Then, trying to disguise his limp as an angry strut, he hobbled away, past the raised voices of Reedfoot and Breezefrost, past Thornpaw's angry cursing- Emberpaw had by now wandered off, bemused and bored- and past the fresh-kill-pile now laden with a very juicy-looking squirrel. He didn't realize he'd stalked into the forest until the stretching shadows of the Greenleaf trees fell over his pelt. It was not exactly cool here, but it was better than the exposed camp.

"Got bored, foxface?" He startled as Morningsong appeared by his side.

"No," he replied sullenly.

"Going for a walk then? I'll escort you. Make sure you don't drop dead in a pile of leaves." The dappled golden she-cat gave a conspirational wink.

"You don't need to do that," Oakstar protested indignantly, starting down the winding shadowed path.

Her voice adopted a mockingly sweet tone. "I don't suppose you'd fancy a trip to the medicine den, then?"

"Fine!" he grumbled. "Come along if you must.

"I do!" she exclaimed, and snickered.

So they walked for a while, in a silence that was more awkward than peaceful.

"Let's go to the river," she suggested after a while, and he nodded in consent. Perhaps the water- the one remaining, full body of water in PureClan territory- would provide some relief from the invasive heat.

They took the familair trail down to the muddy water, their paws crunching over dead leaves. Through gaps in the canopy above, the blue sky could be glimpsed. There was not a single scrap of white; rain was too much for the Clan cats to hope for.

"Nice weather, huh Foxface?" Morningsong asked, with a wry grin.

"I hope this StarClan-cursed drought dies before I do," Oakstar growled.

"I wouldn't be so sure," Morningsong countered. "I think it plans on sticking around for a while longer."

At first his pelt bristled, before he managed to smooth it out. It was another idle threat, an empty promise.

"So do I," he managed to retort.

Morningsong only smiled.

Finally, the odd pair- stooped tabby tom and lithe she-cat- stopped beside the silver remnants of the once-raging river.

"The apprentices have their assessment soon, haven't they?" Morningstar asked suddenly, with a curious glance at Oakstar.

"Sure," he mumbled, distractedly, dunking a paw into the lukewarm water. A dead cricket bobbed on its flat surface.

"And...you've decided who to pair them to already?"  
"I told you. Thornpaw and Emberpaw- obviously- Littlepaw and Fussypaw, Red and Tornpaw. Sorrelpaw, obviously, doesn't need a pair. He'll be a medicine cat for the rest of his life. You know this."

There was a sudden chill down his spine, and the old tabby tom had the urge to move away from the water.

"I forgot," Morningsong said simply.

"Right."

They were silent again, and there was no sound but for the trilling of the birds in the trees. They did not seem aware of the growing tension below them; if they did, they did not care.

"Want to go for a swim?" Morningsong did not wait for an answer; she simply slid off the the riverbank and into the stream, gasping as the cool water submerged her pelt.

"You are one crazy cat," Oakstar snorted, shaking his head in disbelief. PureClan cats did not swim- where were the benefits in a cold soak?

She dove under the water and surfaced with a leaf tucked jauntily behind one ear.

"Can't swim, foxface?"

He'd never learned, as an apprentice or warrior, because even then he'd been afraid of sinking. Oakstar did not tell her that; he felt it would be a mistake to let slip any weakness of his- however numerous or obvious they were.

Morningsong swam back to the bank before heaving herself out, her thick golden pelt streaming with water.

"You can't swim," she repeated. Her voice was low, and unusually uneven. Then she smiled again.

"But are you sure you don't fancy a dip?"

"I'm sure-" he started to say, but before he could finish Morningsong had her teeth in his scruff and was dragging him into the water.

At first he tried to smile, thinking it was a joke, but then clouded water flooded his lungs. A blur of gold shoved him down.

Sinking.

For a long while now he'd been sinking- not literally. He'd thought he'd really sink- but here he was. He was too tired to float.

A small number of words could describe Oakstar's current state; drowning, sinking, dead.

* * *

**Ummmmm...yeah. I started this one-shot thinking it would be cool to do a not-literal sinking and at first it was..then it turned into this.**

**So anyway, Oakstar was the leader before Morningstar. Guess we know how someone rose into power, huh?**


End file.
